MARTINI-TALK, INSIDE THE HOTEL BLACKHAWK

Twilight was descending. A few boats went past as I was sitting on a bench along the Riverway at the Le Claire Park, facing the Mississippi River, watching the deeply colored orange sun as it was setting. There was a light haze in the encroaching evening, golden-looking as the last quarter half of the sun was now slipping over the edge of the western horizon. The contemporary, yet resembling old-fashioned looking lamplights along the Way, were coming on. The uniqueness of the evening, along these shores, and the awareness of it, was sheer enjoyment—a romantic pleasure thoroughly composed all within itself. There were but a few persons out walking along the river’s edge. And there was an easy tempo, a calming possession, consuming the atmosphere, here. Not at all too far from were I sat, there was a baseball game going on inside the Modern Woodmen Park. Where from its bleachers the enchanting backdrop just beyond the wall in back of the outfield was this upper Mississippi River. The great big Ferris-wheel inside the stadium was lit up, as it were when the Quad Cities River Bandits were having a ballgame. Even so, the gentleness remained; equanimity complete.

I remembered now that before I moved away, the team was named the Quad Cities Swing, and the stadium was then the John O’Donnell Stadium. So much was changed, and I hadn’t been part of it; and now that time was all gone and there was no way of retrieving any of it. And these nostalgic bits of facts, that made me long ever so for the past and told me clearly that I’d been away for far too long and that now it was time to come home and that whatever I’d been searching out in the world for if I hadn’t found it in all this time then it didn't at all exist and I should just give up searching for it and that there was no place that could every be quite like home and could ever at best be no more than a poor substitute. Without a pause, this all came to me in one sweeping burst of thought. I heard the call of my internal voice and I was going to oblige the vying plea from within. I had now in the three weeks’ period of being home, fixed my mind on doing just that: I was going to move back as soon as I closed out my affairs back east.

So, with this thought in mind I got up and walked across the Le Claire Park, then the few blocks up to the Hotel Blackhawk. Where inside at the Bix Bar, there were only two people seated at this swank, beige marble-topped bar with its black and white pinstriped leather high-chairs, that extended the feeling of being back in the twenties that flaunted, strutted and then roared. And extended to me now the sentiment of being somehow steeped in the reflections of that past age.

It was a Tuesday evening and the place was low-key, rather exclusive. Which to my taste this was most favorable. I thought just then that maybe after the River Bandits game it might just pick-up. But then looking around again and taking notice of the elegant dining-room behind where I sat, and the flawless, white and black checkered, marble floor that lay all around, among the fancy dining-room, and the floors and furnishings throughout, I recanted that assertion. No, there's no need to worry about that, I thought. This is how it will most likely remain till closing. So for once, sit back and relax and enjoy yourself. . . . I was just completing my thought when the bartender came over.

“Good evening,” she said, smiling courteously. She had been engaged in what appeared a deep conversation with an elderly gentleman who was seated to my right. When I entered the Blackhawk, I walked across the main lobby to the other side of the walk-around bar and was now seated facing in the direction that I had first entered at the doors. I had a pretty good view of the whole place, and noticed some people that were now lounging about the plush sitting area in the lobby.

“How do you do?” I said.

“How do you do?” she repeated. “What can I get for you this evening?” she asked cordially.

“Well—” I said, reflecting, “I’m curious: I’ve never before had a martini. And I've always wanted to try one.”

She seemed a bit surprised. “Really?” Her response was one of a person who had been taken aback, by something that really shouldn't have elicited any extra attention, I supposed, but then, I obliged her curiosity:

“I know. It must seem odd to you,” I said, truly reflective now. Thinking myself that it was rather peculiar.

“No, not really,” was her considerate reply. “What kind?” she asked.

There was a hesitation, a little too long for my part, as I drew a blank. So before I could even attempt to say anything, the elderly man who had been listening in, said:

“Why not make him an olive martini with those cheddar-filled olives,” he pointed across the bar to where they were, and then looked at me and smiled.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, “that does sound good. Who am I kidding: it sounds really good.”

He nodded to me and smiled at the bartender, who I found to be quite striking. She was rather tall, about five feet ten I guessed, modest in demeanor, fit in figure, with naturally blonde shoulder length hair, her slender built body vigorous, teeming with verve and her face was pleasant, her manner and temperament sangfroid.

“How would you like it, dirty?” she asked.

“What do you mean? You have to excuse me,” I said.

“You don’t drink much—I take it?”

“Hardly.”

“I mean, would you like it with olive juice poured into it? It gives the otherwise clear liquid, a cloudy look.”

“Try it,” the gentleman said with fervor, quite coaxingly; “I think you'll really like it. And with that cheddar in those olives—it’ll taste good. Let me just tell you.”

“So dirty then?” she asked, waiting.

“Yes,” I said, looking at her then at the man. “I think I'd like to try that.”

“What kind of gin or vodka?” she asked.

I had no idea just then—just how very complicated was drinking. It seemed such an exacting occupation, I thought with an inward smile. I really didn’t know gin or vodka or much about alcohol in general, to some perfected extent. But it dawned on me just then as I was thinking and scanning the complexities of the well-stocked Bix Bar, that I’d seen advertisings in the subways in Boston, for Tanqueray martinis.

“Tanqueray,” said I, just as I spotted it on the shelf behind her. It was strange, that I was excited about a damned drink. I was never one that could ever be thought of as being a drinker; not even in a social capacity. For I did it so infrequently. And when I did, it held no significant sway whatsoever, even after having several drinks. And I could go years at a time without as much as a sip of any alcohol: I could take it or leave it, really.

“One Tanqueray, olive martini—dirty, shaken. Coming right up,” she said, seeming almost thrilled at the prospect to be actually making a drink. I had noticed that the man was just having a beer. And the part about being shaken as opposed to stirred was all her conception.

Very soon my first ever martini came. I let it set on the beige marble-topped bar for a moment, just looking into it, seeing in it the reflections of my life, I supposed, enjoying the moment of the experience as it were. Life to me was about the live experiences: small and great. The liquid showed cloudy through the clear, chilled glass. And the olives were stuffed, to the point of bursting with the cheddar, like a fat juicy plum on a tree just waiting to be plucked. My mouth almost watered at the thought. I took hold of the little cocktail stick that held the three olives between my thumb and index finger and whirled it once around in the glass. Then I picked it up and brought it to my mouth and ate the first olive, and returned the others to the glass. The olive was fresh, the cheddar was sharp, the contrast enlivening, and then the drink itself went down chilled and smooth chasing right after the olive. The weather had been exceedingly hot, and the atmosphere humid and had clung ever too closely. So the chilled drink was most refreshing. All the while I could sense them both watching on tenterhooks, with separate interest, my experience. The lovely bartender, whose name I would soon formally know, watched as any bartender might’ve: she was proud of the skills she had perfected, and wanted satisfactory approval. While the old man watched to see if I enjoyed his recommendation. Their tensions subsided when they both noted the expression on my face when I returned the glass to the marble—that I was more than a bit pleased.

Soon the elder gentleman, who was no doubt a regular, left. I knew that he must’ve been a frequent patron, because of the way he and the bartender talked rather personally. And too, he said that he lived in the Mississippi Loft's, which was a nice downtown apartment building only a few doors down from the Hotel Blackhawk. It was one of the places that I'd already given ample consideration of moving in to myself when I would return. And looking round this place now, and feeling the chill-out atmosphere that I had moved away from: I thought him wholly lucky, to have it all the time.

When he had gone, the bartender came near and said, with accentuation: “So how was your drink, really?”

“Very good, really,” I said, returning the emphasis.

“By the way,” she said, “I’m Alison.”

I took her hand that was extended, and said: ‘I’m Taylor, the pleasure it’s all mine.” I had seen her name on her name tag, but to me, to learn someone’s name in that fashion was too bureaucratic, (which bureaucracy always made me sick), and for my liking, was just a bit too tacky, and, a whole lot impersonal.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” Alison said, with honest curiosity.

“No,” I’m staying at the other on 2nd Street.”

“This one’s better.”

“No doubt,” I said, and took up my martini glass by the stem and sipped and set it down. It was still chilled. She was right the Hotel Blackhawk was the best in the Quad Cities, and they had just remodeled it, so my friend Don had told me. “The one good thing there, is that I'm facing the river. The view is spectacular!”

“Yes, that it is—from there,” she said, seeming to envision it in her mind. “They’re so close. Just barely a block from the river’s edge. It’s a very good view.”

For a time we said nothing. She went back to organizing her stock and wiping down the bar. I finished my martini and began to think again about what my mind told me when I was down by the river. It was indeed time to come home again. This I now knew without any doubts or reservations, whatsoever. It was perhaps true—that everything I could ever want, was in fact here. And this thought instinctively made me take more notice of Alison, which was only natural to an eligible guy who was returning home to start life after so much time, and certainly after being involved in relations that could’ve ever only amounted to the intimate gratifications that they had been, no matter how long they continued to exist. I had simply been looking in the wrong places for that which I desired most.

“Are you here in town on business?” she asked, being social, and curious all at once. Because I know that I sent out a strange vibe. I felt it myself, had felt it for the entire three weeks, and I wasn’t at all cool with that sensation. I was a familiar stranger. I knew the place because it was home, and from what I knew of the past; but I was a stranger in this present; and didn’t know myself very well, here, in this framework of time, hardly. So my thoughts and feelings were of a mixed bag that were projected outwardly.

“No—” I said, “this is home for me. I’ve only been living out east. And I’ve come on holiday to visit friends. And when I was home-sick.” It always made me feel very odd, when being at home and someone thought that I was a visitor.

“When was the last time that you were here?” asked Alison.

“Three years ago.”

“That’s long,” she said. “Whereabouts out east do you live?”

“I know,” I said, “too damned long. I've been living in Boston, Massachusetts.”

“Is it nice out there?”

“It’s okay,” I struggled to answer. Because it was a place that I really wasn’t feeling anymore. So to keep from speaking about it negatively, I said very little. “It can be. For a time is was.” I was both impr8essed and relieved that she didn’t push the subject but changed it entirely, when it was so natural for people to persist in talk concerning a subject that they had inquired about, till an answer was completely expounded on.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but a lot’s changed—in that time,” she said, her looked was contemplative.

“Yes. I have. And I don't know how much I like it. Certainly not all of it. But I still prefer here over anywhere else. That I’ve learned.”

“I hear you; but it’s growing too much; and I don't at all like that,” Alison said with assertion, looking directly at me with remarkable blue eyes. I only shook my head. I didn’t mind the museums and galleries and sophisticated social establishments that were sprouting up, and all things diverse and cultural. It was just the fact, I liked as much privacy as I could find, and as few people about as possible. That was the chief reason things out east never worked for me, beyond the realms of a career: there seemed always a shortage of thinking and unwinding space. So the thought of a growth spurt, here: I too didn’t like. But I believed that knew why it was happening, though. Illinois was about to go completely under financially; it was no secret that they were experiencing difficult times; so a noticeable amount of folks from the Illinois side of the Quad Cities were migrating over this upper Mississippi River to Iowa, and surely from other places in their state as well, I’d surmised. I couldn’t blame them or judge them for it. I just desired my home to stay as it were—as I had left it, twelve years ago when I first moved. Sure, folks could come and visit so long as they did not stay for too long, I thought, and smiled inwardly at my own sarcasm.

In a little while she set another dirty olive martini in front of me. “This one’s on me,” she had said rather coquettishly and with that look that some women can so dexterously flatter a man, without any words spoken, as she sashayed away, I was drawn to her every movement. And into her kind gesture and disposition, I read every possible romantic meaning that I could think of just then. I was a writer and poet, therefore my imagination knew no bounds. This time I took my sweet time and ate all three of the cheddar stuffed olives, reminiscing on the past; and thinking about the upper Mississippi River; and just how I’d spend my free time when I got back: the kind of women I wanted to meet and get to know, and then make love to; and the things I would write about: in prose and poetry; and who knew, perhaps like Blake and Lawrence I would paint the details of my beliefs and exploits; and then when the olives were all done, I took a drink of my martini. And this one was exceedingly good, maybe even better than the first, seemed even more chilled, perhaps because it was created out of whatever notion Alison was conspiring. I allowed my mind a free and wantonness reign.

She was now talking to a man and woman across the bar. And I found it most difficult to keep my eyes away from her. I was starting to feel somewhat less tense now about all the things that I had been thinking about up till now, even the growth of our town, that I wanted to remain ever quaint—friendly, but quaint. In a while she came back over as they finished their drinks and left.

“Is everything alright?” she asked.

“About as good as it gets.”

“Good.”

“Are you going to the festival?” I said. And just then it reminded me of just how much I resembled a tourist in the land of my own home. This made me resent myself.

“Which?—there’s just so many in the summertime here. I forget.”

“True,” said I—“very true. That’s one of the many things that miss. The blues festival, starting on Friday.”

“Maybe,” she said, her eye contact that was forever lasting, seemed to check my intent: “I haven’t given it much thought. But generally—I do stop off for at least a few hours. “Why’d you ask? At least in the past: I usually always did.” At this point I thought that if there was something romantic in the air brewing between us, in a universe where anything was possible, it would just have to simmer until I came back. And for her part, whatever notions might be if there were any, I hoped that she’d do the same,—by just letting it remain casual for now.

“No particular reason,” I said. “I was only thinking of what was happening this week.”

“How much longer are you here for—this time?” she asked, checking me.

“I’m here until next weekend. So about—” I paused to calculate the days—“another ten days or so.”

“Oh—so you still have a while yet,” she said. I nodded and took a sip.

Just then a group of people passed through the hotel’s lobby, laughing pretty loudly and quite jovially they were, clearly enjoying themselves. Alison turned askance looking to see what was going on. And the little uproar of laughter no doubt reminded her of an incident.

“You know what happen this past weekend?” she said, in a manner contemplative, apparently at some great bewilderment and disbelief, that seemed to stimulate her curious mind with speculation.

“What happened?” I asked.

“There was a large wedding party staying here, and boy, did it get crazy. Let me just tell you that. It got crazy. I’ve never heard of anything quite like it ever before.”

“That seems to happen a lot,” I said, “in and around the pomp and hoopla of weddings. Don’t you think?”

“Yes—I guess so; you’re right. But nothing like this,” she said, shaking her head; “nothing quite like this.” She had a cushioned stool behind the bar. She sat down in comfort to be off her feet just then. “This was as bizarre a thing, as I’ve ever seen—or heard. It was like these dramatic, reality television shows. It still has the folks around here worked up, and steeped in gossip that’ll linger for much longer.”

I knew now that this was going to be a whale of a tale: I saw it in the excitement of her blue eyes, that were so vividly animated to tell it me. And the essayist in me was so eager to hear. I already planned that as soon as I got back to my hotel room and to my journal I was going to sit at the desk and write it all down even if it took me all night long, even reenacting our parts when necessary; only taking breaks at intervals to look out the window at the Mississippi River—that would be illuminated, though darkly, by the lights that shown reflectively on the black water from both sides of the river,—to recharge myself and bring the images of what I’d been told more clearly to mind. So that I could get it at least ninety-nine percent right. That was the important thing. And that in the morning, I was going to my favorite gazebo along the Riverway and compose it in its entirety, without having any phone or human contact or food in the interim, so that I might remember it just as it had transpired. For me, live experiences were everything! And I was so thrilled as she told me the story, that I had been an avid journal-keeper over the years, and here was my reward for my diligent efforts.

“That much?” I said, lifting up my martini-glass. “Wow!” I now wanted to hear every sordid little detail that she seemed most anxious to share. “Pray, do tell!” I instigated her onward with gusto, taking a drink from my glass and setting it back on to the beige colored marble-topped bar.

“There were lots of people, as one might imagine,” she began without as much as a moment’s delay; “It was a big wedding party. I think the hotel made well over one hundred thousand. And as you know: for little old here, that’s a good deal of money.” I nodded, and took another small sip of my drink. And thought, sarcastically, that I would have gotten a temporary justice of the peace license and married them for only have that amount. “Well,” she went on, “for most of the day, before the wedding, the groom was nowhere at all to be found”—she paused to think. I appreciated her willingness to be so accurate. “—Until late Saturday afternoon—so pretty much all day. And who really knows at what point on Friday night he went missing. Because everyone was drinking.”

“What do you mean—nowhere to be found?”

“The wedding took place on Sunday, but no one could find the groom almost all day on Saturday. Most of the people arrived at check-in, on Friday, and the eating and drinking commenced. Somewhere between Friday night and Saturday dawn, the groom just up and disappeared. And like I said: for most of the day. Well, with all the drinking and partying going on, on Friday—no one took notice until about noon on Saturday. And like I said, he didn’t reappear until, hmm—around five or six o'clock Saturday, so early evening.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes—he most certainly did: disappear. They couldn’t find him, anywhere. All the staff looked everywhere; but they hesitated calling the authorities. I believe that he was shacked up in one of these rooms with one of the girls in the wedding-party. What else could it be? They looked at the cameras, he hadn’t left the premises. So somehow he must’ve snuck into a room. When he did finally show up it was well into late afternoon, early evening Saturday. So however you want to look at it: an entire day was practically gone, she said.” And it was with the greatest degree of effort that she didn’t erupt into a giant peal of laughter.

“What!” I insisted, “are you kidding?—what then?” I asked, thinking just how very desperate some things had become in this world of to-day.

“Now get this,” she said, holding back laughter; “he said that he was passed out in the stairwell. But that was a weak lie. Because that was one of the first and last places that they searched. Besides, not everyone uses the elevators. So there are always people coming and going at least a few floors, using the stairs. So if he’d been in the stairwell, as he swore he was—someone would have seen him. Don’t you think so?” She looked directly at me for confirmation.

“Most definitely!” I said. “For certain.”

She shook her head.

“So then what happened?” I asked, or should I say the martini asked. Because dramatic tales like this one, and indolent gossip never was my thing; but for some reason now I really wanted to know.

“What happen!—I’ll tell you,” she paused, as though it was too much to be believed. Then, looking me right in the eye: “—She bought the story—everybody did. Or, at least they pretended that they did. How very sorrowful this world’s become. I would’ve never. But you know who I really would have felt sorry for, if they would’ve call the whole farce off—would’ve been the bride’s father. He would’ve been out of a whole mess of money.”

“The father?” I said.

“Yes,” she insisted, “the father.”

“But still yet,” I said, really feeling disgusted by how desperate this whole mess seemed, “that’s exactly what they should’ve done.”

“You really do think so;—that they should’ve called it off?”

“No, I don’t think at all. Right reasoning recognizes it as the only logical thing that could’ve been done,” I said. “What else do you do—start off under these pretenses. . . pretending? Obviously, he’s having second-thoughts. Or wanting to have his cake and eating it too.”

“And for you it’d be just that easy?” She seemed a bit skeptical.

“No doubt.”

“Really?”

“Yes—really,” I said. “No doubt. And here’s why. A critically, crucial component of marriage, and the one piece of the puzzle to its success—is knowing who the person is whom you intend to marry. And then, a much more vital aspect of the piece of the puzzle is first, to know without any mystery, who you are. Are you the man or the woman that you’ve always wanted to be? You can’t proceed into marriage second-guessing, or anything for that matter—who you are. Then expecting it to figure you out as the years roll on,—on the wings of hopes and prayers. It won’t work out that way. You are the operative one here, not time and circumstances. What are they going to do. . . or anyone in these sort of situations? Bring children into the world under false pretenses and outright lies? And then exist for generation like that? How dysfunctional things will become in the meantime; while you’re waiting for them to just make themselves right. If this is truly their case. But whatever it is: I don’t envy them.”

Alison nodded several times that she concurred with what I said. She now seemed steeped deeply in thought. For some time afterward we didn’t say anything. For this was a drama concerning a man and woman, and despite our personal ideals, it wholly resembled us in the tragic human tale that it was. And I thought, during our silence, on something I once read, in Shakespeare: ‘That all the world really was a stage.’ And my life’s experiences had confirmed, that there was much truth in this sentiment. And tragically this was most people’s lives, at any given time, on so many a given subject, to lesser or greater degrees, which was the only difference.

On the other side of the bar, another person had come up during the time we talked. He sat waiting patiently; he was watching the Chicago Cubs, the favorite team in these parts, baseball game, owing that the Chicagoland was but a few hours’ drive away. She went over to check-up on him. Then she came back after fixing him a drink and conversing with him for awhile.

She was now very intrigued with my thoughts. As it were, I had studied many of the meta-psychologists and philosophers, so my thinking in these days didn’t cut corners. But rather went straight towards a logical and rational point of view. And it made me think that in doing so, I was keeping life simple, very simple.

“So—as you were saying: you would’ve just called it off? How could you just dismiss it just like that?—after whatever time has been invested.”

“Well—my dear, I’ll just tell you how.” She seemed to brace herself. “First off, the ways people are coming into personal contact and meeting each other these days through unnatural ways, just doesn’t cut it in my eyes. I remember not so very long at all, it was a pleasure to meet someone while on a leisurely stroll down along the river; or at a bookstore, the grocery store, or even like in here at a nice establishment. But now, that’s too old-fashioned, and too slow, or, one of the many other excuses that people can nowadays come up with, and with all the diminutive means at their disposal—they justify them. And if anything provokes a feeling that’s lasting, emanating from somewhere deep within, and real and good and sincerely heartfelt, then it’s wrong. People run from what is a true, honest sensation faster than they do from a nefarious one. But, if it occurs by some third rate means of finding a commonality and connecting with another with less human efforts, then that is the right way. So it is, that many have convinced themselves into believing. But then, you never really know the other person, and certainly never yourself. Sometimes even people will know each other biblically and never know each others’ names. That’s all great and good. But can they really expect much more from it. . . . more penetrating and lasting, sincere?

“No,” she said reflectively, shaking her head. “I suppose you can only expect from it—what you’ve put into it.” To Alison’s rationale, I nodded my head.

“And even if this isn’t the exact case with these two—the desperation on the part of the bride to just accept any excuse, and then, whether loss of money, notwithstanding, or what have you—all of something much much much greater has been already lost,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Alison asked in earnest.

“What I mean, is simple: this entire mess is riddled with what seems so much untruth. A lack of honesty before it, during it—after it. Basically, their entire marriage is now based on dishonesty of some form or other. But still yet, regardless of what it is, it just doesn’t seem to be in anyway forthright. Its very foundation, the bedrock of it, is constructed on lies, it would appear—or something similar. You didn’t even buy it yourself. That’s why you had to tell me, a stranger about it. And apparently, very few have bought into it. You did say it’s created unending gossip and speculation even after the fact around here,” I said, gesturing with my arms outstretched wide, to indicate the expanse of this great Hotel Blackhawk.

“I hadn’t thought of it like that. But now that you bring it up—I agree. And I always thought from the start of this episode that he was sleeping with someone in the wedding party. I don’t know why but that’s stuck firmly rooted in my mind, every since. And, that was the reason that he couldn’t be found, because he was hidden away in one of these rooms. And not even for the sake of his wedding could he give it up.”

She took a step back. She had been all the while as I spoke, leaning into the bar right in front of me. Just then another charming young woman appeared from the back. She called Alison over and they talked about some work related things, and then she moved away. I saw her go into the fine dinning-room behind me and started making some arrangements. It was a Tuesday night, but thus-far none of it had been boring. It had out done its billing, for what Tuesday nights are thought of as being like: uneventful.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Alison said, making her back over to the bar.

“No worries,” I said.

“You know, you’re so right, Taylor. You got me to thinking. Yes,” she said in jest: “don’t let the hair fool you,” she touched at her very natural and very blonde long straight hair, “I can think with the best of them, and in most cases: out think most of them, she smiled. “Yes. Why would any one want to begin their lives like this—under false pretenses. . . regardless of what it is: an affair, or simply a big oh pair of second-thought cold feet?”

“Only very frightened ones, I suppose, Alison” ; I said, contemplatively, thinking that this was quite a pickle, and I wondered just then, just how many times were there such similar occurrences.

“Frightened ones?”

“Oh yeah—” I said, “those who feel that this is all rather natural. Because they see and hear of it everywhere—it’s become very natural. So naturally, many thrill seek for these dramas. It’s a model of imitation for them. This drama and chaos and calamity and stuff. And that romance and courtship and marriage is suppose to be these little dreary, sarcastic and insufferable affairs. Where the very heart and soul of these farces are well-kneaded within the drama. Some kind of perverse thrill seeking, I guess.”

“Oh boy,” she said in earnest, and reflectively: “I guess some people just get-off that way.”

“It’s the only way that some people get off,” I said. “People seem to struggle so, nowadays with maturing. And that human life can only handle so much ‘real’ truth. That’s all I can think, right now. With these new methods of dating, and how people are now meeting each other, none of this should be such a big surprise. Do you think for a moment?” Alison shook her head, standing right in front of me. She was near enough for us to kiss. “People have tried to out-smart themselves through some sort of rebellions. And now look, this is their rewards for their efforts. The true kernel of what they’re made of, is projected in what they display outwardly: their thoughts that are really things.”

“Yeah,” she said, in a low tone, “it’s all very depressing: to say the least about it.” And now, for having made her see things from my logical, frank perspective, I felt a cad. Perhaps, I thought now, that I should’ve just let it be just simple barroom, martini-talk gossip.

For awhile nothing was said. She just stood leaning into the beige colored marble-topped bar, right in front of me, fingering her hair, where at brief intervals our eyes met: her light ones and my dark ones, intensity rising to the near point where only one thing could have happened; that would have taken the ensuing evening into a realm that I was not ready to proceed just now, so I broke the silence:

“And if it’s depressing for us, standing here looking at it—can you ever imagine what it must be like inside for them existing in it? I say existing, because one could never call that kind of drama, living.”

“How could they? I still say,” she said, “I feel more sorry for the father. Because he knows. Let’s be real here: everybody knew. And he knows that his daughter has made an awful mistake. And he paid a hefty sum for it,” she said passionately; and I thought her pun beautiful. “And comes hell or high water, now—he too has to come to terms with it.”

“I feel shame for the groom, and for the brides girlfriend, no doubt, or at least someone she’d never expected—the one that her now husband has always been, and will forever be in true love with.”

“Yes,” said Alison, speculatively; “so much so, that they couldn’t even break from it just for a weekend to let a marriage that should’ve no doubt, ever been—never should’ve taken place.”

“Well, they do leave us here, with so many vivid pictures of entertaining speculations to contemplate, whether we’re right or wrong, exactly about them: because such affairs do happen,—and as guides to follow for brief moments of cheap thrills; or, to not follow, if we desire more from ourselves and those that we let into our lives. Cheers,” I said, raising my third chilled martini glass.

T. M. Boughnou was drawn to the writers and thinkers of the ninetieth and early twentieth centuries. After years of a dedicated reading and writing regimen and journal-keeping of his thoughts and observations of his daily routines and personal travels, he began to write. He splits his living-time between Davenport, Iowa and Boston, Massachusetts.